


Fathers and Daughters

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-08-21
Updated: 2003-08-21
Packaged: 2019-05-15 05:00:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14784009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: Leo and Mallory spend some time together





	Fathers and Daughters

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**Fathers and Daughters**

**by:** Baked Goldfish

**Character(s):** Leo, Malory  


You know, Baltimore is a lot like Boston. I mean, there's that same industrial revolution grunginess coupled with the modern, chic buildings. . . they have the same flavor. The streets are all claustrophobic, all dirty, but all with that same historic importance. 

I love both cities. Boston because it's where my family was, growing up; Baltimore because it was where Dad used to take me whenever Mom and I came down to see him at work. 

I hadn't been to Baltimore in the longest time. 

My Dad called me up the other day; I had been in the middle of grading quizzes. I needed a break from it all. So I talked to him for a while. 

"You doing anything tomorrow?" he asked. 

I glanced at my calendar; tomorrow would be Sunday. "Nope," I answered. 

"Wanna go down to the Inner Harbor?" 

Like I said, I hadn't been to Baltimore in so long. And I hadn't spent time with my Dad for the longest time, either. "Sure," I answered, hoping I didn't sound too enthusiastic. 

I don't know why. I mean, I should have been enthusiastic to go out somewhere with my Dad. I don't know why I didn't want him to think I was overjoyed that he'd been able to pencil me into his schedule. 

But I'd replied as nonchalantly as possible, and he asked me if six at night would be a good time to get moving to catch some dinner. I live in Silver Spring, and it's about a forty-five minute drive from my house to the Inner Harbor. He lives in Georgetown, and it's about a half-hour to hour long drive to my house, depending on traffic. 

I wonder why I don't visit him more often. I guess I just don't have that much time, teaching and all, and he doesn't have much time, running the White House and all. 

But, he was here at six o'clock prompt. Dressed down, in jeans and a sweatshirt and a leather jacket. When did he get that jacket? I don't remember him having that jacket last year. And since when has he worn Doc Martens? When did Dad start wearing anything but suits? 

Honestly, I expected him to show up in a suit. That's what I'm used to seeing him in these days. I haven't even seen him with his suit jacket off, not in the past two years. 

Actually, I haven't seen him all that much in the past two years. I remember, last year, when he scheduled my class for a visit to the White House, I didn't see him. I was in the same building as him, in the same general vicinity as him, I was talking to a member of his staff. Yet I didn't go see him. In my defense, I couldn't go see him; I was with my class. I couldn't well leave a horde of fourth graders in the highly incapable hands of one Sam Seaborn. Not that I don't like Sam, he's a great guy. But I wouldn't trust him with five fourth graders, much less twenty-five. 

Okay, I'm straying. I get that from my god-father. Yeah, that doesn't make sense, really, but it's true. Mom and I used to spend a lot of time with him and Abbey. Because Dad used to crash there when he was drunk and high. 

Note the usage of 'and'. 

Dad never did anything halfway. Never. He graduated top of his class from college and law school, and in between the two, served not one but two tours in Vietnam. And then he was the spit-polish politician, Mom always told me. Right on down to the well-hidden scandal. 

Why the hell am I thinking about all this? He's just come over to take me to Baltimore, where I've not been in years. And he's standing there in denim and a sweatshirt and Docs. Which is utterly different. 

I should have him stop off at Sam's place. Might duly freak the poor boy out. I mean, it's freaking *me* out, and I'm his daughter. 

Anyway. We climb into his car; it's a nice car. A few years old, not too flashy. It's a nice car. He doesn't use it much, though. I mean, really, the only place he goes is to work, and that's within walking distance of his place. So he just has this car, sitting in the hotel garage, collecting dust. Well, I guess he's using it now, I mean, we *are* going to Baltimore. 

We did small talk on the drive there. Forty-five, fifty minutes of small talk. It's not that bad of a thing that we didn't have too much to talk about, I think. I'm a grade school teacher, he helps run the country. What's there to talk about between us? Education bills? I don't want my father to talk about work when we're together. We're not together that often, and so I'd rather talk about the weather than politics. 

Baltimore is not quite as brilliant as I remember it, but it is more than just familiar. The salty scent to the air, the subtle wind, the toned down glitz of the harbor buildings. A few things are different; I don't remember the Planet Hollywood being there. In fact, I don't remember the Planet Hollywood at all. 

I do remember Phillip's. 

That's where we always go. I know, I know. A lot of people would say, my dad's rich. We can go somewhere classier. There's a Legal Seafood around the corner. We could get fresh killed crabs, steamed right there on the waterfront. Or we could go down to Fell's Point. 

But it's tradition. Dad always took me to Phillip's. Right there, on the main floor of the mall, order at the counter and scrounge up a nearby table. It's tradition. No matter what, if we were in Baltimore, we ate at Phillip's and ordered their crabcakes and fries and the fish and all that good stuff. 

We go inside the mall after spending a good twenty minutes trying to find a parking spot. Don't get me wrong, I love Baltimore. But could the streets be any more confusing? Really. I mean, we passed our turn, had to find a one-way street going the right way for us to make a U-turn, and man alive was that a long diversion. The city planners must've had something against their progeny when they were figuring out the street setup for this city. 

Anyway, we go inside the mall. It was chilly outside, the air biting and crisp, and the mall offered warmth on top of the food. It took us a while to find Phillip's, as the setup is a lot different. Turned out, there are two Phillip's now, one that's a buffet, and another that's an actual restaurant. 

We go to the restaurant one. It just seemed more personal, more private. I think we were both planning on ordering the same thing that we used to order, years ago. The menus come, and we can't find anything familiar other than the crabcakes, except now they call them "classic". So, we ordered those, some fries, I had a baked potato and he had some type of weird rice and we both get salads--I had to force that him, he's just like my godfather that way--and we got two lemonades. 

I don't drink alcohol. With my father, and my grandfather, would you? 

Dad told me about my granddad in Phillip's. I was twelve, he was drunk. Mom tried to get him off the topic, because she didn't want us to make any sort of scene. I think we already had made a scene, but that's Mom for you. Always protecting Dad from public embarrassment, the perfect politician's wife. But, somehow, she couldn't stop him this time. 

"Mal, your grandfather shot himself in the head when I was only a few years older than you are right now," he had said, right after I had finished telling him about my last day of school before the summer. I looked at him, and just nodded and sipped my ice water. He wasn't a slurring drunk, or an incoherent one either. He was just morose, and blunt. He didn't mind telling me things like that. He didn't mind telling me that he thought my favorite sweater was threadbare and ugly, that I looked like a homeless kid with that wild eighties hair (though, looking back, he might've been onto something with that). 

But here we are, and he's not drunk, and I'm not twelve. I'm over twenty-one and under thirty and that's all I'm telling you. Anyhow, here we are. And the waiter's just taken our order, so we're sitting there, in that little booth in the non-smoking section, waiting for the crabcakes and the salads and stuff. He leans back, and I glance at the bay through the big window. It's not as beautiful as I remember it; the waters aren't a shimmering clear black in the night, they're murky and sickly-green and I see plastic bags floating amongst a few dead jellyfish. The Baltimore Aquarium juts out ominously, black against the dirty, smoggy night sky. This is Baltimore, but not as I remember it. 

The food comes, and we make more small talk. That's all we can really do. All right. I admit it. I can't really talk to my father. I don't know how to. He's a politician, so I don't want to talk politics because it's his job and I know, as much as he loves it, it will stress him out. This past year or so, all I've talked to him about was the divorce and Sam. And I haven't talked to him much on either subject. I never talked to him when I was younger, because it wasn't until I was in my latter years of high school that he finally got off the booze and the pills. And I was in *high school*, and that's when kids become naturally distant from their parents, so I never talked to him then either. And then I was off to college, and he was off to the lecture circuit, and we never saw each other except for a few hours on Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

So now we sit. Eating salads. Picking at them, more likely. And neither one of us can say anything other than, "So how was work?" and, "The weather's been weird lately." I never wanted it to be this way. I never wanted to be this distant from him. I love my Dad, I never wanted us to be like this. I love him so much, I loved him through the alcohol and the pills and everything. 

We're about halfway through the salad when I see him start; his cell phone. He put it on vibrate so that it wouldn't ring in the restaurant. He looks at me apologetically and pulls it off his jeans. His "hello" sounds pained, and as he listens to the voice on the other end, he rubs his hand over his face and hangs his head. 

Apparently, the caller asked where he was, because he says, somewhat aggravatedly, "I'm in-" He sighs and defeatedly states, "I'm in Baltimore." Without another word, he hangs up, and tries to look busy putting the phone away. 

I wave the waiter over, and ask for doggie bags and the check. 

The drive home is complete silence. I stare out the window and watch the passing forrests, munching on the crabcakes. They're like I remember, creamy and smooth. But there aren't enough of them, only two of them, and they're smaller than they used to be. Before I know it, they're finished. Dad says that I can have his, he's not hungry anymore. I never asked him for his, and I tell him he needs to eat. He tells me to take them, he'll get something at work. I don't believe him, but I take them; I don't want them. I want him to eat his crabcakes, because I know he'll get to the office and he'll be doing something military-like until two in the morning and then he'll just go to his hotel room and pass out on the couch until five in the morning, at which point he'll get ready and go right on back to the office. 

He pulls into my driveway, and I ask if he can come in for a moment. He glances at the clock in the car and hesitates for a moment; then he shakes his head. His hands are gripping the steering wheel, and his knuckles are white. 

I lean over and give him a kiss. His hands don't leave the steering wheel until my car door's open and I'm half out. That's when I feel his hand on my shoulder, and I turn around and fall into his embrace. He let's go after a moment, and it's awkward because... I don't know why it's awkward. It shouldn't be awkward for a father to hug his daughter, but with us it is. 

I smile and tell him I'll call him, and he smiles tightly, knowing that with our schedules we'll end up missing each other in an attempted game of phone tag. My house seems empty as I go inside. He waits until he sees my door close before pulling out of the driveway. 

I go to the window and watch him leaving. I keep watching until I see his red tail lights dissappear over the small hill that is at the end of my street. 

And I keep watching after that. 

-end- 


End file.
